Just As It Was
by Ezika
Summary: A little diversion from my other fics ;) Short and sweet. C&M fic with very little plot. Please read and review.


Just As It Was  
  
I was feeling inspired and it took my mind off feeling sick, so I wrote this ickle fic last night. Its only short, and doesn't really have a plot, but I'm not doing so great with plots right now ;) I guess its C&M, but its also trademark Ez ;) I don't own the characters. If I did I would pay someone to feel ill for me. Please review. Oh, and Have You Ever is on its way as soon as I figure out where I'm going with it.   
  
He walked back into the apartment stiffly. He hadn't shaved and his stubble added years to his appearance, just as the weight he carried in his heart did. A weight made up of solid ice and iron manacles and fire all at the same time, making up the greatest pain he'd ever felt in his life. His friends had wanted to come, to help him face the heartache, but he didn't want them here, didn't need them, not like he wanted and needed her.   
  
Chandler shut the door slowly. He wanted to be here, to smell her and see her things and feel the memories. He could almost hear her voice, welcoming him home from the office. Could almost see her in the kitchen cooking dinner, coming over to kiss him hello. He closed his eyes for a long minute, torn between the desire to remember, to lose himself in happier times, pretend she wasn't gone, that she was here to greet him and tease him about his shabby appearance and make him dinner. He would laugh with her and tell her not to bother, he would pull her close and breath in the delicious smell of her hair, and he would kiss her and taste her. He had to force himself out of the daydream then, knowing that if he didn't the pain would be unbearable.   
  
"Oh Monica," he whispered to the empty apartment.   
  
He realised he didn't want to be here at all. The happy memories were hidden under a coating of shock at the realisation that although the apartment was just as it was yesterday morninghis life was not.   
  
Their cereal bowls sat on the kitchen table, their content soggy and inedible. Some orange juice had spilt and gone sticky, and he wondered why Monica hadn't wiped it up straight away. The coffee in the cups and pot was cold. The dishes in the sink were waiting to be washed up. One of the magnets on the fridge held a reminder she had written for him several days ago that her parents were coming this weekend. The note had been written in a hurry, and she hadn't signed it, but her handwriting was still as neat as ever. He knew without looking that the contents of the refridgerator hadn't changed. Milk, coke, beer, cheese, yogurt, cucumber, chicken, ham, mayonaise, eggs, butter. Rachel had left her jacket on one of the kitchen chairs, he would have to remember to give it to her the next time he saw her.  
  
The TV guide open on the coffee table, showing yesterdays programmes, the TV remote next to it, he couldn't remember who had switched it off. A half empty glass of water sat on a coaster. Another few coasters were scattered around the table, without drinks on them. A pair of Monica's shoes were underneath the table, probably there since she had come home from work the day before yesterday and kicked them off. Despite his pain, Chandler couldn't help smiling at the thought of her being so unMonicaish. But he frowned when he realised she wouldn't ever put those shoes away.   
  
He didn't bother with the spare bedroom, he knew that would be clean and tidy and impersonal. Even with Monica's special touches, dried flowers and such like, he would never believe it was a REAL room, like all the others. When he told her that, he remembered her laughing and telling him he needed clutter to make a real room. He had nodded seriously and added that to him, a real room was also one where he had memories of her.   
  
"You're such a sap!" she had told him grinning. "What memories?" she couldn't resist asking.   
  
"Oh, you know. I mean, our first New York kiss was in the kitchen, I proposed to you the first time in the livingroom, we decided to move in together out there too" He looked at her to check she wasn't laughing at him, but she was smiling at the happy memories. "The bedroom, I would hope I don't need to remind you about!" She giggled. "As for the bathroom, I love taking baths with you in there, and we found out you were pregnant there," he had said softly, putting his hand over her stomach which showed no sign of her pregnancy yet. She had put her hand over his and smiled at him lovingly.   
  
Chandler sighed sadly. That had only been a few weeks ago, and he didn't understand how such happiness could have turned into such misery in such a short space of time.  
  
In the bedroom was when it really hit him. The wardrobe door hadn't been shut properly, and had come open to show all Monica's perfectly ironed and organised clothes and her lined up pairs of shoes in the bottom. He opened the other door and saw his perfectly ironed (by Monica of course) but randomly put away clothes. Oh, she had tried to bring order to them, but he claimed he couldn't find anything her way and insisted on putting his own clothes away. Monica had laughed at him in disbelief, but had given up trying to make him as neat as her. The bottom of his side of the wardrobe had a few pairs of shoes, the bag he took to the gym (or as Monica put it "the bag he would take to the gym if he ever went"), a shirt that had fallen off its hanger and the bathroom scales. He had hidden them there when Monica told him she was pregnant to stop her obsessing about her weight, although it amused him that instead of being paranoid about putting on a pound or two, she was suddenly desperate to put on weight, to prove her fertility. But as much as he loved her and her neurosies, it drove him insane. At least when she was stressing about putting on weight he could calm her down by telling her she looked as gorgeous as ever and probably making love to her. He hadn't had the guts to tell her she looked like she had put on a few pounds, even when she wanted him to, so he had resorted to hiding the scales. He knew Monica had probably found them, but she had given up obsessing about it for the most part.  
  
Chandler shut the wardrobe door, and risked a glance at their bed. It wasn't made, they'd been running late yesterday morning after he kept her in bed for early morning sex, and she hadn't had time to make the bed. Even so, her side was straighter than his. The table on her side of the bed had a lamp on, and the book she was reading "Summer Sisters" by Judy Blume, with a bookmark clearly marking the page she was up to, somewhere near the end. Near the end, but she would still never get to finish the book. A necklace he had given her for their first wedding anniversary was draped over the table. Chandler opened the delicate locket and saw their smiling faces beaming out at him. He closed his eyes in pain.   
  
The table on his side had a matching lamp, but was more cluttered. His reading glasses weren't in the glasses case that was right next to them. The watch he realised he had forgotten to put on yesterday was also there. He glanced at it, half expecting it to have frozen time along with the rest of the apartment, but it was correct and still working. His book, "The Stand" by Stephen King was over a thousand pages long, and he hadn't even read a hundred of them. He prefered to watch Monica, whether she was sleeping or reading or talking to him.   
  
She was so beautiful when she slept, and he found the sound of her breathing soothing. And he loved to watch her get swept away by the story in whatever book she was reading, until she would laugh out loud or cry along with the characters, and he loved the half satisfied, half disappointed sigh she would give when she finished a book. When she talked to him, he couldn't take his eyes off her, simple as that. She deserved his total, devoted attention.  
  
He felt a lump growing in his throat, the tears springing to his eyes. He had never been much of a crier, but since she died he had been unable to help himself crying at the slightest thing. He wanted to fling himself onto the bed and sob, burying his face in the soft familiar smell of her pillow, snuggling into the bed, trying desperately to find some of her warmth, longing to fall asleep so he could dream happy dreams about her. Or better yet, he wanted to wake up, to wake up lying next to her, and hold her tightly, scared by the thought of losing her, comforted by knowing he had her a little longer, hopefully a lot longer. He would hold her and never let go if he had that chance.  
  
Chandler supposed he must have fallen asleep, because he woke up feeling horrible in every way possible. Not just the trauma of knowing Monica was dead, but the simpler things that he'd slept in his clothes, that he hadn't slept for over 24 hours and he had only napped for less than 2 hours. He felt a little sad that he couldn't remember whether he'd dreamed about her or not.   
  
He lay still on his stomach on the bed. It was the first time in what seemed like forever that he had woke up without her next to him, knowing she wasn't just outside the bedroom, that he could spend the whole day with her if he wanted, that he would fall asleep next to her later after making love to her or at least kissing her goodnight.   
  
Everything had changed for him. He felt like the world had swept over him and Monica, drowning her, killing her. And even though he tried to cling to her and either help her to safety with him or die with her, he had been dragged along with it, and had been forced to leave her behind. And even though the tidal wave had left his life devastated, it hadn't touched anything else. The apartment was exactly how they had left it yesterday morning as they rushed to the hospital because Monica had stomach cramps and was bleeding. Even knowing something was wrong with her pregnancy, he had never thought he would lose her. Losing the baby was the biggest fear he'd had right then. But he had always believed Monica would always be there, that she was indestructable. But she wasn't. And yet the traffic outside kept on going, the couple who had just moved in next door had sex, the man upstairs played rock and roll music. The world was oblivious. 


End file.
